


where all the concubines meet

by ScatteredWords



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Gen, implied bdsm? ish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScatteredWords/pseuds/ScatteredWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a countess of the night, but never its queen. Character meta disguised as fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where all the concubines meet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Rasputina song "Transylvanian Concubine." I just never imagined Carmilla as the Vampyre Queen type; she seems like more of a misfit.

Some vampires floated through eternity as if born to it, dancing elegantly through night after moonlit night. But she never did.

In life, she’d been clumsy. Not in the physical sense- Mother never stood for anything less than total grace -but socially. Crowds made her irritable, so her first ball was a disaster. There was champagne; she hadn’t liked it, which wouldn’t have made as nice a story for Laura. (Mortals never wanted to know if you’d had a less-than-perfect eternity.)

Every conversation that night had either trailed off into awkward silence or ended abruptly when she said something too bold. By the end of the party, she’d managed to offend the sensibilities of at least half the guests, torn her gown where it caught on a gentleman’s saber hilt, and ended up hiding out in the library. Mother had flown into a fury the minute the door closed behind the last stragglers.

It was obvious by age 16 that she was completely unmarriagable. No respectable young count or baron or even knight wanted the girl who appeared in a rumpled dress with her nose in a book. No scion of a noble house ever called again after she too-readily offered her views on equality between the sexes.

Not that it mattered. Men were never her fancy anyway.

Then came the trip to Vienna, when she was 19; then came waking up immortal after a day of delerious agony. She’d hoped it would change things.

300 years followed. Glittering midnight parties came and went, with sights not to be imagined. Mortals on leashes following vampires with slavish devotion in their eyes. Fountains of blood kept warm by complicated steam heating systems. Her own kind kissing and embracing in all possible gender permutations. Rich and strange delights beyond her wildest dreams. 

So why, she found herself wondering a thousand times, did she still always end up in the library?

Sometime around the 1900s, she began to figure it out. The vampire women around her were all mystery and moonlight, effortless mixes of the feral and the ethereal. They swanned around in crimson satin and black lace, distant above the rest of the world. She, Mircalla-Millarca-Marcilla-Arcillma, was too rough around the edges. A sketch to their perfect oil paintings.

But the humans…

In the 1920s, the humans started getting rougher. The world began shifting from a crystal chandelier to a burst of fireworks. And she found herself drawn to the colored flames.

She didn’t fit in. Her speech was too old-fashioned, her interests all wrong, her attitude too intense. That was alright now, though; not fitting in was worn as a badge of honor in certain circles. So she discovered first speakeasies, then smoky lounges, then rock concerts. She found herself, in leather pants and purple nail polish and black smudged around her eyes. 

When her mother ordered her to clean herself up for some vampire gathering, she saw the others with the same strange fascination humans did. Curiosity only just outside mortal awe, because she knew them better than a mortal ever could.

But they still seemed to be alien creatures, these queens of the night. Like figures she could see through a windowpane and never quite touch.


End file.
